by Lily Baxter
Elsie continued to work in the kitchens at Darcy Hall, doing what was required of her without complaint, but as the days went by and she read about the atrocities in Europe, she became even more determined to do something that would contribute to the war effort. Young men were dying in their hundreds of thousands, and the plight of the Belgian refugees, displaced by the advancing German army, struck a chord deep within her. The newspapers were filled with stories of families torn apart and women and children arriving in England with little more than the clothes on their backs. She knew she must do something, but it was difficult to know where to start.
In the privacy of her own home she studied the situations vacant columns in the newspapers discarded by Mr Winter, but she had had to wait until no one was looking before she had taken the relevant page and slipped it into her apron pocket. If it became common knowledge that she was seeking employment elsewhere she might lose the job she had, and that would be a disaster. It was difficult to save enough to pay the rent on Tan Cottage as it was, let alone find money for necessities. It was late September and there was a hint of autumn in the air. The leaves on the trees were heavy with dust and beginning to turn subtle shades of russet and gold. Skeins of wild geese flew overhead morning and evening, honking and calling to each other as they headed for the fields where they would feed on the ears of corn left after the crop had been harvested, building themselves up to face the winter. The cold weather was coming and there would be the additional expense of paying for coal and candles or lamp oil. Mrs Tranter had offered Elsie a bed in the attic rooms with the junior kitchen maids, Emily and Jane, but if she accepted a live-in position she feared she might condemn herself to a life in service. She had glimpsed another way of life and been treated as an equal by Marianne and Henri, and nothing would be the same again. Cook and Mrs Tranter had tried to warn her against becoming too friendly with her employers, and Elsie was beginning to realise that they were right.
Marianne had been in London for almost a month and no one knew when she might return. It was obvious to Elsie that both Marianne and Henri had moved on within their own circle and that she had been forgotten. For all she knew Henri might have returned to France and might even have been one of the casualties of the battle of Le Cateau that had claimed so many lives. She had applied for several positions locally without success. A cordite factory had been set up at Holton Heath, but it would cost her more to travel there each day than she could earn, and although she did apply she received a negative response by return of post.
On her day off she caught a bus to the nearest town and made enquiries at the railway station to see if they needed porters or someone to work in the tearoom, again without success. She tried the bus depot but they needed drivers and she had to admit that she had never been behind the wheel. She went into shops and offered her services but the shopkeepers seemed to favour young boys or older men, and she was turned away. She spent a few pennies on a cup of tea and a sticky bun, and caught the bus back to Sutton Darcy feeling frustrated and angry. She boiled an egg and buttered a slice of bread, and was just about to sit down to eat her frugal meal when someone rapped on the front door. She went to open it and to her surprise it was the rent collector. He doffed his cap. ‘Good evening, Miss Mead.’
‘You’re a day early, Mr Thompson.’ She reached into her pocket and took out her purse.
‘Only a day, Miss Mead. Is it a problem?’
She counted out the coins. ‘No. I made sure I have enough.’
He took the money and dropped it into a leather pouch. He hesitated, eyeing her warily.
‘Was there something else, Mr Thompson?’
‘I’m afraid so, Miss Mead. I have to give you a week’s notice to quit Tan Cottage.’ He took an envelope from his breast pocket and pressed it into her hand. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s the landlord’s orders.’
‘I have to leave my home? Why?’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Mead. The landlord is terminating the agreement, which was with Mrs Monique Mead. It’s only just come to his attention that the lady is deceased.’
‘But you can’t turn me out. I’ve been paying the rent regular as clockwork.’
‘I know, but it’s not my decision. The owner has another tenant in mind who can afford to pay almost double the amount your mother was paying.’
‘You can’t do this to me.’
‘I’m afraid I can, miss. You have a week to pack up and leave Tan Cottage, and that’s final.’
Chapter Four
ELSIE SAT IN the corner of the third class railway compartment, staring out of the window as the train chugged into Waterloo station. It came to a halt with a screech of iron wheels on iron rails and a huge burst of steam from the massive engine. There was a moment of chaos as the other passengers gathered their possessions and reached up to heave their luggage from the racks. She sat very still, waiting while they jostled each other in their efforts to climb down to the platform, even though Waterloo was the terminus and the train would be there for some time before it began its return journey.
A couple with two noisy children were the first to alight, followed by a burly man wearing a mustard yellow suit which made him look like a bookie or a barker at a fairground. He tipped his bowler hat and apologised as he trod on Elsie’s toe and had to turn sideways to get his bulk through the door. He was followed by two prim ladies dressed from head to foot in black, who had sat side by side with their knitting needles clicking all the way from Southampton. They had cast darkling looks at the badly behaved children, tut-tutting but not daring to speak out. Elsie was the last to leave the compartment and she stepped down onto the platform, standing very still while people rushed past her to the barrier. London had a strange smoky smell combined with the hot metallic odour emanating from the hissing steam engine. The air felt heavy and warm compared to the fresh sea breezes on the coast, and everywhere there was noise and bustle.
She made her way to the barrier and handed in her ticket, but the feeling of excitement and anticipation evaporated as she emerged from the station concourse and stepped into the busy London street. Nothing could have prepared her for the sheer volume of horse-drawn traffic interspersed with motor vehicles, and the pavements were crowded with people who all seemed to be in a tearing hurry. The noise and the confusion made her head spin, and worse still she had no idea how to get to her destination. Mr Soames, who had worked in London as a young man, had advised her to take a cab to the address she had been given by the charity that had offered her work. She had read an article about the Women’s Emergency Corps in The Times, and had written off to the address in Baker Street, citing her fluency in French as her most useful asset. The reply had been swift and positive, offering her a job as interpreter. There had been no mention of a wage, but she assumed that they would not expect her to work for nothing, and had written back accepting the post.
It was only now that she realised how little she knew of life in the big city and hailing a cab was easier said than done. She waved hopefully at a likely-looking vehicle but it sped past her, and she was just beginning to wonder if she was invisible when a hansom cab drew up at the kerb and a man leapt out, tossed a coin to the cabby and strode into the station. Elsie ran up to the cab, waving frantically. ‘I want to go to Baker Street, please, sir.’
‘Hop in, miss.’
She heaved her suitcase into the vehicle and climbed in after it, falling onto the seat as it lurched forward into the seething mass of traffic. Elsie did not know which way to look. There seemed to be places of interest on both sides of the road and then they were crossing Waterloo Bridge and she had her first sight of the River Thames, wending its majestic course through the city in sinuous serpentine curves, its coffee-coloured tidal waters gliding onwards to join the North Sea. Her knowledge of London had been gleaned from reading newspapers and looking through magazines discarded by Josephine Winter, but nothing had prepared her for the reality or the cost of the cab ride to Baker Street. She paid the cabby what h
e asked and then she remembered that Mr Soames had warned her that tipping was expected, and she gave him threepence, which seemed to satisfy him, but left her with an extremely light purse. She picked up her suitcase and walked into the office of the Women’s Emergency Committee.
The woman who interviewed her wore a businesslike shirt and tie and a tight hobble skirt. She placed a cigarette in a long holder and clenched it between her teeth, eyeing Elsie through a plume of smoke. ‘So why do you want to do charity work, Miss Mead?’
Taken aback, Elsie struggled to find an answer. ‘I need a job, miss, and I’m fluent in French.’
‘My name is Charlotte Greenway. You may address me as Charlotte or Miss Greenway.’
‘Yes, m— I mean, Miss Greenway.’
Charlotte leaned her elbows on the desk, fixing Elsie with a hard stare. ‘You do realise that this is unpaid work, don’t you?’
‘Unpaid?’ Elsie gulped and swallowed as her throat constricted in panic. ‘But – but I thought it was a proper job. I’ve come all the way from Dorset and I gave my notice in at Darcy Hall.’
Charlotte’s stern expression softened and she took the cigarette holder from her mouth, flicking ash into an overflowing ashtray on her desk. ‘I see.’ She stood up and paced the room, replacing the holder between her teeth. ‘This is unfortunate.’ She came to a halt beside Elsie. ‘We do have an amenity fund. I might be able to organise a small remuneration for you, but I’m afraid it won’t be enough to live on, unless you have somewhere to stay that costs next to nothing.’
Elsie rose to her feet. ‘I’ve nowhere to stay. I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time.’ She was about to leave the room but Charlotte barred her way.
‘Sit down before you fall down. You’re as white as a sheet.’ She opened the office door. ‘Rosemary, bring us two cups of tea, there’s a good chap.’ She guided Elsie to the nearest chair. ‘When did you last eat?’
‘Breakfast, I think. Yes, it was breakfast.’
‘And it’s now five o’clock. How do you expect to look after refugees if you can’t take care of yourself?’ Charlotte perched on the edge of her desk, swinging a booted foot and puffing on her cigarette. ‘How old are you, Elsie?’
‘I’m twenty-one, Miss Greenway.’
‘That’s something. I thought for a moment you might still be a minor. You look very young, and you’re newly arrived from the country. Do you have any friends in London?’
Elsie thought of Marianne but abandoned the idea. She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘And you have nowhere to stay?’
‘No. I was hoping to find a hostel somewhere. Mr Soames said there were such places for working girls.’
‘And who is Mr Soames?’
‘He’s the butler at Darcy Hall, where I was employed in the kitchens, although I’m a trained lady’s maid.’
Charlotte looked up as the door opened and Rosemary walked in carrying two tin mugs of tea. She placed them on the desk. ‘Is there anything else, Charlie?’
‘Not unless you’ve got any biscuits out there. I think Miss Mead is in need of a little sustenance.’
Rosemary shot a curious glance at Elsie. ‘I think there are a couple of ginger nuts in the tin. Will they do?’
‘Capital. Bring them in, old thing, and then you’d better pack up for the day. You were here before I was this morning.’
‘Thanks, Charlie.’ Rosemary winked at Elsie as she left the room, returning seconds later with three ginger nuts on a chipped saucer. ‘You can see that we don’t waste money on fine china, Miss Mead.’
Elsie managed a weary smile as she took a biscuit. ‘Thank you.’
‘You look done in, if you don’t mind me saying so,’ Rosemary said, frowning. ‘Have you come far?’
Charlotte took the saucer from her and laid it on her desk. ‘Miss Mead has nowhere to stay. Have we got any addresses she might try? Most of the lodging houses will be full but she might be lucky.’
‘It’s all right,’ Elsie said hastily. ‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘Have you got enough money to pay for a bed and a hot meal?’
‘I don’t know why, but I thought it would be provided. I realise I was wrong, but I thought a charity would look after its staff.’
Rosemary chortled with laughter. ‘You are fresh from the country, aren’t you, Elsie? This is London, my love. Everything costs and most of the ladies who work here are bored rich women who normally wouldn’t get out of bed until midday. I’m the exception but I’m an out of work actress and they do pay me a measly few bob for the privilege of being involved in a good cause.’
‘Rosemary is paid from the amenities fund, as you will be should you decide to stay. We’re very short of helpers who are fluent in any language but their own, and I can’t afford to send you back to Dorset.’ Charlotte stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Come on, Rosie. Surely you must know of a place nearby where Elsie could get a bed for the night?’
‘You can come home with me,’ Rosemary said with a cheerful grin. ‘I rent an attic room in Crawford Street. It’s not exactly Buckingham Palace but it’s clean and dry. Breakfast and supper are included in the rent. Mrs Crabtree isn’t the world’s best cook but I’ve a good supply of milk of magnesia.’
Elsie looked from one to the other, receiving a nod and a smile from Charlotte. ‘Rosie has an impish sense of humour, but she’ll look after you. Go with her now, Elsie, we’ll have another chat in the morning.’ She reached for another cigarette. ‘I’ll see you both at eight o’clock sharp. There’s another trainload of refugees to meet at Victoria station at nine and we need to be there early.’
It was raining outside and Rosemary had a brief struggle to unfurl her umbrella, half of which hung limply like a broken arm. She set off along Baker Street at the quick pace which Elsie had come to recognise as the London walk. Everyone here seemed to be in a tearing hurry to be somewhere else. Their legs worked like pistons as they marched, heads down, towards the tube stations, while others came to a sudden halt at bus stops, tagging on to the end of long queues.
‘We’ll walk,’ Rosemary said firmly. ‘It’s not far and most of the buses have been commandeered to transport the troops, so the ones that are left are infrequent and overcrowded.’
Elsie was too tired to comment and it took all her concentration to keep up with Rosemary’s long strides. The rain trickled off the idly flapping part of the umbrella, soaking the woollen hat that her mother had knitted before the disease consumed her fragile body. Rosemary ploughed on, crossing roads and weaving her way between the traffic with blatant disregard for the danger. Elsie was at once impressed and terrified as the horns of the motor cars blasted in her ears and the shouts of the carters and cabbies merged into an irate chorus.
‘Clay Street,’ Rosemary said breathlessly. ‘We’re almost there.’
Elsie’s spirits rose as they hurried along Crawford Street. The terraced Georgian houses were well kept and prosperous-looking with an air of quiet respectability, but Rosemary took a turning on the left and they were in a different world. Clay Street was a narrow thoroughfare lined with a mixture of mews cottages, workshops and four-storey buildings of indeterminate age and no particular architectural style. There was a gas lamp at each end of the road, but in between was a pool of damp darkness. Rosemary seemed undeterred and she marched up to one of the taller buildings and knocked on the door. ‘Mrs Crabtree doesn’t allow us to have a house key,’ she said cheerfully. ‘But there’s always someone who will let me in.’ She let down her umbrella and gave it a vigorous shake. ‘Someone’s coming.’
The door creaked as it opened and they were admitted by a small woman wearing an old-fashioned black bombazine dress. Her grey hair was scraped back into an uncompromising bun, skewered with what looked like a pair of knitting needles. Elsie did not like to stare. ‘Who’s this, Miss Brown?’
‘A friend, Mrs Crabtree. She needs a bed for the night.’
‘I got no spare rooms, Miss Bro
wn. You know that as well as the next person.’ She stared pointedly at Elsie’s suitcase. ‘Can’t take in no one. Full up.’
‘She can sleep on the sofa in my room, Mrs Crabtree. Just for tonight. Miss Mead is new to London and has nowhere else to go.’
‘It’ll cost you two shillings and that includes supper and breakfast. I can’t say fairer than that.’
Elsie was about to protest that Mr Soames had told her she could get a week’s lodging for three and six, but Rosemary sent her a warning glance. ‘Thank you, Mrs Crabtree. I’m sure that’s agreeable, isn’t it, Elsie?’
The front door was still open and she could hear the rain beating down on the pavement, and somewhere along the street a gutter was overflowing. Elsie shivered and nodded her head. ‘Yes, that’s fine, thank you.’
‘Well shut the front door then,’ Mrs Crabtree said irritably. ‘You’re letting the damp in and the heat out.’ She stomped off along a narrow passageway, disappearing into the dark.
Elsie closed the door. ‘It seems a bit expensive to me, Rosemary.’
‘This is London, love. You can’t afford to be too fussy and there’s a war on. Accommodation is hard to find, as you’ll discover when you have to help the Belgian refugees. I’d say that’s the hardest part of the job, but we do our best. Follow me. It’s a bit of a climb but we’re young and healthy.’ She headed for the stairs and Elsie followed her.
The top landing was narrow and uncarpeted. Their footsteps echoed off the sloping ceiling and they were in almost complete darkness. A small roof window was encrusted with soot and bird droppings and it leaked, but Rosemary did not seem to notice and she walked to the end door, unlocked it and went inside, beckoning to Elsie. ‘This is it. Home sweet home.’ She lit a gas mantle and it fizzed and popped, sending out a dull yellow light and leaving a distinct odour hanging like mist in the stuffy atmosphere. Propping her wet umbrella up against the wall, she took off her outer garments, tossing them over the back of a chair. ‘Make yourself at home, Elsie.’ She went down on her hands and knees in front of a small cast-iron fireplace and struck a match, setting light to the twists of paper and kindling. ‘It’s not too cold, but I do love a fire in the evening. It’s extravagant, I know, and it’s hard work carting coal up from the cellar, but it’s my one bit of comfort and I refuse to do without it, even though old Crabtree charges me twice what it costs her to buy the coal. She’s a tight-fisted old skinflint.’ She sat back on her haunches watching the flames lick up the chimney. ‘Supper is at six sharp, so we have to be downstairs a bit earlier or we won’t get a seat at the main table. If we have to sit by the window we get the leftovers, and they’re always cold.’
